Of things lost and forgotten
by TheGinjaNinja
Summary: Robb Stark is off fighting a war against Joffrey, but as soon as he hears of Jon Snow's capture, he will risk everything to get him back. But can they save him? Or is it already too late?
1. Jon

The man in black walked towards the tower. Reports from all over the land had been coming in and none of it looked good. The only reason the watch was interested was because the tower was near them, or so they told him. The man walked up to the tower. It didn't look like it belonged, with the grass hills and the pine in front of him and the wall and the endless snow behind. The tower belonged in the middle of a lake, surrounded by fog, like in the stories he would listen too with Bran. He gripped his sword and sheathed it. This wasn't right. Why would they send him here? It was just so… deserted. You couldn't run anywhere and there wasn't a building in sight, save for the wall; but that was thousands of feet away! So, the raven-haired man continued to walk to the tower. Nothing moved, and you couldn't hear anything but the soft pat of his feet against the dewy grass. 'That's odd', he thought, 'it's not the mornin' no more'. But he did not stop, and the world was still quiet. Then it was broken. The man turned around to his horse that had whinnied and ran away. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to. He could only hope that his horse got back to his brothers and they would look for him. And then, the world was quiet again. He turned around, and continued to walk, sword in hand to the tower.

He was a looker; girls swooning all over him, until they found out he was a bastard. Any man could tell he was from the north, with the traditional northern look; hair that shamed the wings of a raven, pale skin that was covered in scars from battles, and cold, grey eyes that betrayed nothing to what he was thinking. Yes, he was a bastard, but a high born one, and was often shunned for his father's mistake. His father's betrayal to his wife to a common whore, but whoever she was, he did not look like her. He was northern throughout.

He reached out and slowly pushed open the door, but found that he needed to put all his weight behind it to push it open. The door was stiff and heavy; it could withstand many an arrow. He took a look into the darkness of the tower. He shouldn't be here, but the commander asked it of him, and his horse was gone. If he tried to leave now, he would be captured and beheaded as a deserter. He had no choice, and so he stepped into the dark abyss. He really should've thought this through, 'huh', he thought. 'I really _do _know nothing'. Thinking that thought made him think of red hair, kissed by fire. But she was beyond the wall, and he betrayed her. He wouldn't ever see her again. He silently cursed himself, 'don't think these thoughts, Snow, she's gone and you have to move on'.

He was standing in the middle of the tower. It was dark, and clouds were forming in the sky. He really should've seen it coming. It was _right _there, staring him in the face. He was just too stupid to see it.

The arrow went through his shoulder. He gave a grunt of pain, but the next attack had already started. The sword seemed to come from nowhere, and he barely had time to bring his up to meet it, bit another was at his back. He thrust his sword into its face, and swung around to meet the next blow, but he could feel another to his left, and put his sword through its stomach. He immediately drew out and slashed another's skin. He turned and met another's blade; the loud clash of the sword seemed loud enough to reach Winterfell. It made his ears ring, and his slight hesitation was met with a dagger to his side. He groaned in pain, and slashed its throat. He landed another blow on another's torso, and it was then that he realised how wet he was. He liked his lips, and was met with the familiar tang of sweat, and the bitterness of blood. Another arrow landed in his thigh, and he fell to his knees, and slashed out at their legs. Longclaw was sharp, and he heard the screams of men and their bodies falling to the ground. A sword met his back, and he fell to the ground. His sword was still gripped in his hand, and he reached to par another's blow away, but the force was too much, and Longclaw was thrown from his grip. He tried to reach for it, but another arrow went through his back and hit his shoulder blade, smashing the bone and lodging itself into him. He had never felt so much pain. He expected more blows to come, but was met with the voice of a woman, and as she told the people attacking him to stop, a man with a torch came in. It was then that he could see how wet with blood he was. He was covered with it from head to toe. He could see the arrow head that had come out from the other side. It went through his muscle, and it fucking hurt. And it was red. There was just red _everywhere_. He had never felt so sick of the colour in his life, and seeing the woman was only making it worse. She had red hair, she wore red clothes, her lips were red, and her bare feet were splashing in blood. Their blood. _His _blood.  
She bent down to look him in the eye. She reached out her hand and touched his face.  
"Who are you?" he asked, and smiled at him with her perfect teeth and her bloody lips.

"That is none of your matter. You are here, because you have something that I want." her voice sounded like honey, it was smooth and looked sweet, but he was no fool.

"What do you want?" he wanted to grimace at how cliché he sounded, but he would not show weakness to this woman, to the lady in red. But she just smiled and threw her head back and laughed, and when she stopped, she looked at him in the eyes. The torch made them look like glistening red rubies.

"You know _nothing_, Jon Snow"

She started mumbling, and a pain so unreal surged through his body. It took up his entire existence. He had never felt so much pain. But he would soon realise that he, truly, knew nothing.


	2. Ygritte

**Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, but I'll upload one tomorrow and the day after for you.**

'This is wrong', she thought. 'ese people are innocent, what gives us the right to do take em?' Her arrow went through a man's back. 'Funny', she thought, 'ow it's so much easier to take a life than to give it'. A man made to kill Van. She drew an arrow from her quiver and lined the dent up with the string. She pulled back and breathed in, and released.

The arrow went through his neck. Val slashed at another's neck, killing him instantly. She didn't even notice the man who almost killed her. 'Idiot', she thought, 'girl as pretty as her shouldn't be out 'ere, killin' 'em all off. She's too pretty, she is'.  
"YGRITTE!" Tormund yelled across the screams of the battle field, but you could easily hear his deep, loud voice over the clash of swords. "TAKE THAT TENT!"  
She started towards the tent he pointed to. It was small, one of the smallest ones there, and she was starting to feel insulted.  
Ygritte heard a wild roar, screaming through her ears. She turned around and fired an arrow through the man's neck. How any man could manage a sound like that was something like no other world, but she thought nothing of it as she burst into the tent. She heard the familiar sound of a sword cutting through the air like paper, and she could feel the gentle breath it made.  
It's funny, how when you're put into that situation where you have to survive, that a whole other part of you takes over. That part of you that'll do anything to live. So, she wasn't thinking when she killed him, she just reacted to the situation. She wasn't thinking when she stabbed the man's face with an arrow. She didn't think about his family or the blood that covered her. She didn't notice the tiny girl in the corner who was screaming and holding her eyes in her hands.  
It was the first time she'd ever felt guilt for killing someone.  
Ygritte approached the young girl, and the girl gasped and tried to move back from her, but soon she reached the side of the tent and she was completely at Ygritte's mercy.  
'It would be so easy', Ygritte thought, 'jus' to kill 'er right now. Save 'er the pain', but again, for the first time, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Ygritte lowered her bow and put her finger to her lips. She grabbed the girl and ran through the battle to the edge of the clearing, where she left the girl, then turned around to the burning tents.  
She didn't look back into her young accusing eyes.

When Mance heard, he was furious. The stress of war had taken its toll on him, she noted, as she saw the shadows under his eyes, and his once raven-coloured hair now held brilliant streaks of grey and white, and for the first time, Mance Reyder truly looked… well, old. He had been going on for nearly 10 minutes now, and she really had things to do, places to be. She didn't have time for Mance and his shit.  
"You are completely out of hand, girl! You let one of the people go, you won't kill a young girl and you were later seen refusing to fight! You have t' change, girl, and fast, because there's talk 'round here, and I'm not sure who's side you're actually on." Ygritte stopped looking at the fire and stared him in the face. He had _never _questioned her loyalty. EVER. She was born and raised a wildling, and one of Mance's most trusted allies. Or _was_, now, really.  
"What did you say?" Her voice shook with anger.  
"You heard me, _girl_. You were one of my best until that crow came 'round. You could never leave his side. Always with him no matter what, and after he left, you still wouldn't let him go!" Mance stood up. Though he looked aged, he was still tall, and he easily over towered her. Ygritte stood up looked him right in his eyes.  
"Jon Snow was an 'onrable man. More than you'll ever be! You've changed, Mance. You used t' care for us, your people, but look at you now! You're consumed by your need for revenge! Revenge against the night's watch for abandoning you! It's pathetic! You're like a baby throwing a tantrum at 'is brother who took your toy! It's PATHETIC!"  
"Take care for what you speak, Ygritte, or I'll have you hanging by your ears over the fire. I'll even sent your burnt hair to your crow, and he'll scream, and you'll be alive just long enough to see your arrow go through his throat!"  
"FUCK YOU!"  
The slap seemed to echo across the whole camp. She could no longer hear the people outside the tent, the giant's footsteps shaking the ground. All she could hear was the slap, ringing on and on in her ears. She didn't need to raise her hand to her cheek to feel that it was hot. She could practically feel the welt starting to form. She hated to admit it, but he hit HARD. Harder than she'd ever been hit by one of her own. She stood up straight and looked him in the face again. She could feel herself shaking with such anger. An anger that shook her whole body, and she let it wash over her.  
Mance called a man in. She didn't catch his name, as she wasn't listening. She just continued to look into his face, the face that she once worshipped, would've done anything for. She heard him order the man to take her away, but before he could, she spat at him in the face. Fury like none she'd ever seen before passed across his features, as he once again slapped her face, but she was prepared this time. It didn't hurt as much as it should've. She felt such a boiling heat, such an uncontrollable rage. She loved it.  
She was taken away, back to a tent they kept for people who caused trouble. The tent where you would sit and wait for your inevitable death.

The man who tried to lead her away had a snapped neck, and another who saw was out cold on the felt rug. She looked for her bow and quiver, but couldn't find it, and came to the conclusion that Mance had given it to Tormund, and she really didn't want to die tonight. So, she grabbed the first bow and quiver she came across, and ran. She ran faster than she had ever known she could, and by breaking light she could see the wall.  
"Hold on, Jon Snow," she said aloud. "I'm coming for you."


	3. Jon II

**WARNING: RAPE, BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC.**

To kill a man takes a lot of guts. Killing is final, you can always be sure that it will lead you to death, and after you reach death, well, we all know what happens. Death is so final, so sure. You can always be sure that it'll keep the pain away, so nothing can ever hurt you again. But pain, however, pain is a state of mind. Our body's way of telling us "put down the glass", "stop putting pressure on that" and "stop the hot poker she's sticking into your back", because FUCK that hurts.  
I suppose to truly know pain isn't a good thing, you just wish that the pain will stop, but it never does and it keeps on coming and coming and coming.  
There are different types of pain, of course. Physical pain was something he was well familiar with, by now. His nose was broken, his eye was swollen and there were so many cuts. Some from Winterfell, some from the Wall, some from his time with the wildlings…  
And some from the crazy bitch who just wouldn't let up.  
He thought after a week of this, he would truly know pain, but no. The Gods just wouldn't let him get off that easily. He'd broken bones before, been cut by knifes before. He hadn't been whipped though, hadn't experienced the pain of having his back torn open, again and again and again.  
He had been shot by arrows, too. They hurt like a bitch. But they didn't shoot him. No, they shot him with crossbows, and that was a whole other kind of pain, and they didn't take them out either. They just left them in him. Some fell out, after enough clenching, others they took out, but they wouldn't be gone long, and some got infected, and he welcomed it. He welcomed death with opened arms, but she would always draw him back, back into the cruel harsh reality if the world.  
She played with him. Teasing him. She would wave the knife in front of his face, before she would take it down lower and etch pretty drawings into his skin. They were never that deep, but she would take her time. Slowly splitting his skin, tracing the blood that always fell thick. She would put the hot poker just near his skin, so he could feel the heat radiated off it, before she would drive it into his side. Being burnt and branded hurts, you can smell your own skin burning and the sound sizzling skin, but it's _nothing_ compared to being stabbed with a blunt iron hot knife. You could feel the hot metal burning your skin, slowly making its way through all the layers of it, you can feel it burning your insides, and it's like no other pain you can imagine. It slowly twists around and you can feel your own muscles burning, melting, and she leaves it there and the muscles eventually build themselves around it, and then she grabs the hilt and slowly, agonizingly, pulls it out, and you're sure that you'll never escape this hell.  
The only relief you can get is the knowledge that your time will eventually come, that you will die eventually, because no one lives forever. It's the only relief that you can get in the times that you're being whipped, skinned, burnt, cut and broken.  
Jon looked up when he heard the door being opened, and the soft patter of bare feet. His eyes hadn't seen the light in nearly two months, and once his eyes adjusted, he was _extremely_ startled to see her, and she was as naked as the day she'd been born. She walked up to him, her breasts poking out and soon were pressing against his bleeding chest.  
"What're you doing?" his voice shook, showing how truly afraid he was, but she smiled, all perfect white teeth, contrasting against her red lips. Blood, he noticed, they're covered in blood.  
"Showing you the true meaning of pain" she replied almost sweetly.  
It was like no other pain, it was guilt and shame, coming from the basis that he actually liked it. It just felt so good, but that was what it was meant to do, it was meant to break you, slowly and surly as her tongue licked the blood off his chest, it was all just painful, and it was entirely psychological. Pain, he thought, wasn't about being broken physically, it was all mental. That was the part that broke you.  
And so the next time he heard the door open, he held his head high.  
They wouldn't break him.  
Not ever.


End file.
